The Wind Beneath My Whines

Trench Coat (H&M, similar here) Sweater (Zara - old, similar here and here), Jeans (J.Crew - self-cut because they were too damn long and they look better this way, similar here), Sneakers (Converse - sold basically everywhere since basically the beginning of time), Ring (Blanca Monros Gomez via Of a Kind) 

We were getting pretty cocky there with that seemingly steadfast warm weather (or at least I was, with my bare legs and my silky tank tops that seemed to evaporate at even the slightest of touches), but this is still San Francisco after all, and this city is nothing if not temperamental, drought and all. What's a jaunt home from a long day at work without the sour face sensation of stinging gales slapping your body around to remind you that you're aliiiiiiiiiiive (!!) and that walking is hard? I ASK YOU.

Between the scores of plebs that have permanently lost their ability (did they ever have it to begin with?????? I wonder..) to walk in a straight line at a healthy pace, and the tempestuous proclivities of the air here, moving about the streets of this city can be damn near impossible at times, depending on your location and your constitution. 

As such, my finely tuned capacity to hate things, both acutely and expansively, has been further honed over the years as I've frequented these streets. And whereas previously, in more cynical times, I would have kicked and spat and clawed at the gusts of human particles the city was throwing at me, these days—because along with baby smooth skin, an abundance of maturity and wisdom, and fewer physical ailments, aging also brings with it an increasingly sunny disposition, especially in the face of conflict—I simply greet the wind with a smile, and a thick sweater. 

ELL-OHH-ELLLLZZZZZ.